01-29-2017, 08:13 PM
“Perhaps,” she says in agreement – it was foolish, to daydream so. She says this not because she thinks herself above the mare, but because she thinks of most things –herself included – as deserving of disdain.
(Exempt from this is her family, which exists like a mythos in her mind – gods and goddesses on their mountain, and she, the mortal, cast out.)
The wings change before her eyes, like liquid, and her eyes widen in an unwelcome curiosity. These new wings are more like those of a bird, though brighter.
She still intends to go, to be on her way – back to where it is quiet, back to the bracken where she can be alone with her distant thoughts, but then a name is offered, a gift she does not want but does not refuse either.
“Viscera,” she says, and her voice is soft, because she does not use it often, she does not see much need for it.
Go, her mind whispers, but her hooves stay planted, sunk into the earth. She notices a tenseness about the girl – someone more empathic might notice it for what it was, and inquire about it, offer comfort. Viscera does no such thing. Instead, her feet, in a terrible act of betrayal, step a little closer.
“Your wings,” she says, still soft, “you made them change.”
She is envious of this. There is much about herself she would like to change.
v i s c e r a
you have blood on your hands, and I knew it was mine